Quiet Light
by DreamTailor
Summary: An autistic boy and his dog make their daily journey to Paradise. One shot. Original story.


Quiet Light

A salty breeze filled his lungs as he inhaled, acknowledging the small pebbles stuck to his fingers from the climb down the rocky cliff. He sat down and rubbed his palms together, watching the small stones fall to the ground. _One, two, three, four . . ._ A golden retriever yipped from the top of the escarpment, slowly making his way down to where the boy sat. A few loose stones tumbled down as the dog planted his feet on the cold stone, wagging his tail at the achievement.

The boy's eyes focused on the wagging tail, rather than on the dog's face. He stood up and walked over to the golden pup, and clasped his fingers gently over the tail, smiling slightly as he was pulled this way and that by the motion. After letting go, the dog circled around the boy and stopped at his side. Now moving his fingers up the dog's back, he tightly grasped the ruff of fur on his neck and let himself be pulled as the dog walked forth.

The path they followed was narrow and crumbling. The two were about a hundred metres up from the rolling Atlantic waves which crashed and foamed at the base of the cliff. The wind blew stronger today, the cold wrapped itself around the boy, sneaking its fingers into his jacket. On a distant peninsula, a red and white lighthouse flashed. Engraved in its belly were the words,

_Come by Chance, Tales of Avalon, Newfoundland._

The boy and his dog lived in a small, sided house near the cliffs with his mother and father. This was the boy's home for the six years he had lived. His father was a fisherman: however, he had been on a fishing trip for many long days now. His mother was a housewife, and spent most of her time cleaning, cooking, or sitting in an old wicker rocking chair on the porch, watching him play from a distance or reading from an old, yellow paged book.

Every day, the boy would wake up and line his toys up in a neat line at the foot of his bed.

_One, two, three, four . . ._ He would then dress himself, putting on his shirt, then his socks, his underwear, and lastly his pants; this was how he always dressed. The boy would then go to the kitchen, where his mother would hug and kiss him. He would stare at her hands and repeat good morning. After eating his breakfast, he would begin to stack cans of soup inside the cupboard.

_One, two, three, four . . ._

After this ritual, he would take his mother's hand and lead her to the door. She understood that he wanted to go outside, and called the dog, patting her knees. Sometimes the boy did the same. The golden pup trotted up to him, and his mother clipped a leash to the dog's collar. She would scold the boy before he left, telling him to stay with the dog and not to go near the cliffs. Again the boy would focus on his mother's hands as she spoke, and would nod curtly before running out the door, the dog racing alongside him, tugging the leash. His mother would then go back into the house and clean.

The boy was thrown out of his thoughts when he stumbled on a loose rock jutting from the pathway, and he fell to his hands, the wind tearing at his jacket. The dog yelped at the sudden tug. Turning it licked the boy's scraped hands and nuzzled his face. The boy patted the dog's nose in response.

Standing, the two again resumed their travel. Every day the boy and the golden retriever made the journey to this location. This place was their special place, their paradise. As the two rounded a sharp corner, their hideout once again came into view.

A small hole tunneled deep into the cliff, the pale sunlight softly illuminated the walls and a small circle of light could be seen at the bottom. Standing at the entrance, the boy stood for a moment, looking behind him to see that he was not followed. His eye caught the slight patch of land far out in the Atlantic, Woody Island, and noticed the large dark storm clouds forming over it. Content at the sight, the boy began to make his way down the small tunnel, the dog scooting down behind him. His hands ran over the sharp edges of the rocks and his foot found refuge in the familiar nooks and crannies.

His foot finally made contact with the hard granite stone at the bottom of the tunnel. He turned to face his paradise.

A crystal protruded outward from the centre of the cavern. Impossibly large, the corners were sharp and its surface gleamed like melting ice. A small stream of light made its way from the tunnels entrance, and shattered upon the crystal. The shards of light scattered and danced about the stony, grey walls and spectrums of light flared intensely with colour. The crystal emitted an eerie aquatic glow.

It was alive.

The dog finally made its way down and sat by the boy, watching the dancing light, waiting. The boy reached out his hand, touching the light, cupping it, cradling it in his palm. The light seemed to pulse at his touch and it swirled and shone; wispy fingers beckoned the boy and the pup to join the enchanting dance. The frills of its many skirts speckled the walls in playful patterns. Occasionally a glittering fish swam by the boy, or a bright, opal bird flew up into the dark abyss of the cavern roof.

The boy began to shuffle his feet. Silently he swayed as the light caressed his cheek, and twirled with his wobbling figure. He began to move his feet faster, and the retriever joined him, weaving its golden body around the boy as he moved, the dogs fur glistening with colours. The light spun, dancing with the boy and splaying brilliant images upon the walls.

The boy thought back to his family, soft streams of light flitting across his face. He remembered his parents talking about him . . . and his Autism. He remembered one phrase quite clearly. _Autistic children have trouble with imaginative play._

He stopped and let the light hold him, reaching to the crystal and stroking it softly, lovingly. Outside, he heard a faint rumble and the light sound of raindrops hitting the stone. _One, two, three, four . . ._ The small stream of light had faded from the tunnel entrance.

But the crystal still glowed . . .


End file.
